


All's Fair in Love and Stores

by cathadoodledoo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, I don't know how business works so i've taken major liberties, M/M, derek doesn't know how to interact with strangers, sterek is endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathadoodledoo/pseuds/cathadoodledoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski has finally accomplished his dream: opening a women's boutique. At least, he accomplished ONE of his dreams, since becoming a professional wrestler seemed nowhere in his future. Unfortunately, he finds out that the cute little space with a huge back room he's renting comes with a catch: he has to share the back room with a grumpy pet supplies storeowner named Derek.<br/>Stiles has a nasty letter for his realtor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As I said in the tags, I have like no idea how business or real estate works, so I've taken major creative liberties with the process of opening and managing a store. If it's incredibly inaccurate, I hope it doesn't take away from the story.

Stiles Stilinski knows that operating his own store won't be easy. Everyone warns him about it constantly, but he just waves them off, saying he can handle a challenge.

Who knew it would be this hard? Saving enough money from his part-time job to start it up, getting a business license, finding sellers to buy clothes from… It's exhausting. He's got almost everything in place now, though, except perhaps the most important part: the store itself. He's been scouring the Internet and newspapers for space to rent, but he's found nothing so far. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

Until about five minutes ago.

He just found a tidy little space in Massachusetts, in a nice, safe suburban area with lots of foot traffic and tourist attractions nearby. The space has a huge storeroom and a little furnished apartment right above it for Stiles to live in. Plus Scott and Allison live in Providence, which is like half an inch away on the map, so he can visit them easily. It's pretty much perfect.

He e-mails the realtor, then shuts his laptop with a click. He rubs his face wearily and sighs, surveying his messy room. He doesn't know how he's going to sell the idea of moving from Beacon Hills across the country to his father. The sheriff has seemed to enjoy having Stiles live at home after college, but he graduated four years ago. It's time for a change of scenery.

Unable to resist his instinct of completely ignoring problems at hand instead of thinking about how to fix them, Stiles opens his laptop again and browses the web for hours before he hears the front door open and close, announcing the return home of his dad.

"Hey, Stiles! You home?" his dad calls upstairs.

"Uh, yeah, Dad," he replies distractedly, carding his fingers through his hair.

"Good, because I got pizza and I couldn't have promised to save you some."

"You know you're supposed to be eating healthier," Stiles wheedles, already on his way downstairs. He can't say no to pizza.

He finds the sheriff in the kitchen stuffing a piece of pizza into his mouth, with three more slices on a plate in his hand. Stiles snatches two from him and slides them back into the box.

"You do not need four slices of pizza, Dad. Come on."

"I paid for this!" John protests, cheese threatening to spill out of his mouth.

"Yeah, and I'll be paying your hospital bills when you have a heart attack from all this sodium," Stiles counters. His father wraps an arm around his chest from behind and gives him a noogie.

"Watch the hair, old man!" Stiles yells, batting his hands around his father's head. "It takes like twenty minutes to make it look respectable in the morning."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I know how you like to look pretty," the sheriff teases. He finally relaxes the viselike grip he has around Stiles's chest and hands him a slice of pizza.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Unlike some people, I don't deny others their right to pizza."

Stiles grins uncomfortably and takes a tentative bite of the pizza, not looking at John's face. His father slows his chewing and looks at him concernedly.

"You alright, kid?" he asks. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," Stiles replies not-so-innocently.

"I've known you for 25 years now--"

"26," his son interrupts.

"--and I can tell when you're lying," he continues. "Tell me what's up."

Stiles pauses to gather his thoughts. "Um, well, you know how I've been trying to find a space to rent for my store?"

"Mm-hm," John says, mopping up grease on his plate with the pizza crust. "How's that going?"

"I found a place--"

"That's great!"

"--in Massachusetts."

The sheriff stops, looking at his plate. He pops a piece of crust in his mouth and chews it slowly, mulling it over. Ten seconds pass.

"Oh," he finally says. Stiles raises an eyebrow and bites his lip.

"So, what do you think? It's not expensive at all, which is a friggin' miracle, considering the location and the space."

"Massachusetts, though? That's pretty far away. What about your job here?"

"I'm quitting. The thing is, I kind of already e-mailed the realtor about it."

His dad raises his eyebrows. "Well, then why are you asking me?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay with it."

"You're 25, Stiles--"

"26!"

"Well, either way, you don't need my permission."

Stiles rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "No, I guess not."

"And I'm proud of you. You seem like you're really seeing this thing through. Go for it," John says simply, reaching for another piece of pizza.

"Really?" Stiles asks. His dad nods, and he throws his arms around him.

"Thanks, Dad," he murmurs into his shoulder.

"I expect you to call me at least every other day. Maybe every day. Maybe hourly," the sheriff says, and Stiles chuckles and moves away.

"I can do every other day," he smiles. John's eyes crinkle at the corners, and he pats his shoulder.

"But don't think you've distracted me. I saw you snag that pizza," Stiles chides.

"You're not the boss of me."

 

**********

 

A week later, Stiles finds himself on a plane to Boston. The man next to him falls asleep with his mouth open the entire flight, breathing right into Stiles's face. His breath smells vaguely of curry and garlic.

Stiles watches _Frozen_ and _12 Years a Slave_ on the screen in front of him (and definitely does  _not_ cry, thank you very much; he just has allergies, okay?) and falls asleep after. He wakes up an hour later when the pilot informs them that they're about to land.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and smacks his mouth a few times, grabbing a water bottle out of his carry-on and chugging half of it. He jiggles his leg and stares out the window as the plane lowers, not noticing the annoyed glances from other passengers. As they descend through the clouds, he starts catching glimpses of the lit-up city below him. Buildings seem to grow in size and pinpricks that he recognizes as car headlights start to appear. Some of the buildings he sees look older than the state of California, which fascinates him. He's barely ever left the young West Coast before.

After a bumpy landing, Stiles exits the plane and emerges into the airport. He follows the signs to baggage claim (he gets kind of lost once), retrieves his suitcases, and then follows even more signs to departures, where his taxi driver should be waiting for him. He spies a man there holding a sign that says "Style Stilinski," and sighs. Maybe he should've picked a different nickname when he was little.

"Let me take those," the cabbie offers. Stiles gratefully hands some of the bags to him, and they set off outside to the taxi.

"So you're headed to Concord, right?" he asks. "What brings you there? Family? Vacation?"

"Oh, I'm opening up a boutique," Stiles enthuses. "Women's clothes."

"Good luck, kiddo."

They chat some more for a while, Stiles trying hard not to laugh at his accent (seriously, what is up with how people talk here?) before they pull up in front of the soon-to-be shop. He pays the hefty fee, gets his suitcases, and bids the driver goodbye. He turns around, looking up at his new home with butterflies in his stomach and bittersweet tears stinging his eyes.

"Hello, Concord," he whispers into the night. He wrangles the keys the realtor mailed him out of his pocket, and opens the front door. He drags all his stuff inside and shuts the door behind him, wandering inside cautiously and looking around the dark, empty room. He sees two doors on the far wall. One opens up to a staircase that presumably leads upstairs to his new apartment.

He struggles with his bags up the cramped spiral staircase, unlocking the door at the top and stumbling into the room. He flicks a lightswitch on the nearest wall, and a bare lightbulb illuminates the small space. He peers around the room in front of him, which is a little kitchenette. A door next to him leads to a sparsely furnished bedroom that has a full bed, a closet, and a nightstand. Yet another door swings open to reveal a bathroom. The door almost hits the toilet and the shower is barely big enough to fit him, but it's  _his._ It's all his.

He goes back into the bedroom and flops down on the bed, promising himself to unpack tomorrow. He falls asleep without brushing his teeth or changing into pajamas, dreaming of the new life that awaits him.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wakes up with a jerk to find his phone blaring "My Heart Will Go On," Scott's personalized ringtone.

"Hey, buddy," he grunts, rubbing crust out of his eyes.

"Hey!" Scott chirps, ever the morning person. Stiles hates him. "How's the new life treating you so far?"

"Well, I dunno. I only got here like ten hours ago and I spent 99% of that time sleeping. I still would be sleeping if it weren't for  _somebody._ "

Scott carries on obliviously, bless his heart. "Maybe you can come visit Allison and me today! Or we can go there!"

"No, I have to be here today. The furniture and stuff is supposed to get delivered today, so I have to be here to sign for it."

"Oh," Scott says disappointedly. "Another time, then?"

"For sure." Stiles swings his legs over the side of the bed, pads of his feet flat against the cold hardwood. He gets up and stretches with a little whine, then plods out of the bedroom into the kitchen.

"What did you decide to call the store?" Scott inquires. Stiles scratches the side of his head.

"Crap. That's probably pretty important, right?" he sighs.

"Probably."

Stiles puts the phone on speaker and sets it down on the counter. He runs his hand over the shitty coffeemaker, the microwave, and the tiny sink. He wonders briefly if there's good hot water before trodding heavily to the refrigerator. He opens the dingy white door and peers inside to find-- nothing. Right. Obviously. He only just moved in. At least there were dishes.

"I have to go grocery shopping," he groans to Scott. He's met with silence. "Scott?"

"Sorry, what? I was talking to Allison." Stiles can hear the stupid grin on his face.

"I have to go grocery shopping," he repeats.

"Oh, you'll get to see the local color, right?"

"I don't  _wanna_ see the local color," Stiles whines. "I want to avoid seeing people until I have to. Like, once my store opens for business."

"Well, unless you're planning on starving, I think you should probably go get food."

"I don't have a car. I have to  _walk_ ," he complains.

"Would you like some cheese with that whine, nasty brat?" Scott laughs.

"No, Scott, stop quoting Cher's tweets. It doesn't suit you. I thought I told you to unfollow her?" Stiles sighs. "I should probably let you go now. I'm hungry."

"Alright, have fun."

"I'll try."

After he hangs up, Stiles returns to his bedroom to hunt down the shoes he'd haphazardly kicked off before falling asleep. He finds one in the bathroom and one under the bed, then snatches his wallet and keys off the table in the kitchen.

Once he's outside and walking, he's kind of glad he has to go food shopping. The crisp October air smells like wet leaves and wood smoke, and the foliage in the center of Concord is spectacular. Autumns never looked like this back home.

He walks briskly down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, and smiles at the occasional passerby. It takes fifteen minutes before he finds a little food store, and he's shivering from the cold by that time. He walks in rubbing his hands together, and waves at the old man behind the register.

"Cold out there, huh?" the man says.

"Yeah," Stiles huffs. "I actually just moved here from, uh, northern California. It never gets this cold this early in the year."

"Eh, you'll get used to it. Plus, this is New England. The weather changes every twenty minutes."

Stiles chuckles. He walks around the store, scoping out his choices, grabbing junk food, frozen meals, pasta, sugary cereal, milk, and some frozen vegetables he knows he'll never eat, to balance everything out. He pays at the front of the store, bids the old man goodbye, and then takes a deep breath and braves the chilly air outside. On his way back to his apartment, he sees a few tourists taking pictures of a statue. He frowns, wondering what there could be in this town to attract tourists.

At his new home, he puts his groceries in the fridge before going to his room, tugging his laptop out of yesterday's carry-on, and flopping down on his bed with it. He Googles "what to do in Concord, MA" and finds a plethora of answers saying things like "Walden Pond," "Sleepy Hollow Cemetery," and "Minuteman Historical Park."

"OH," he exclaims to no one. "It's THAT Concord." He vaguely remembers learning about it in US history in high school. Lexington and Concord, shot heard 'round the world, something like that. He decides to explore some of the attractions once his shop is up and running. For now, though, he has clothes to unpack. He looks around the room at the suitcases scattered everywhere and sighs.

"I have to do it at some point," he mutters.

Almost an hour later, he's done and munching on chips while watching The Walking Dead on his computer when he hears a buzzing sound. He realizes someone's outside at the door, so he hurries out of his room and stumbles down the stairs. He slows down as he approaches the door so as not to seem weird to his visitors. He opens the door and sees a delivery man.

"Hi, there. Delivery for, um…" the man squints at his clipboard. "Ra-- Re-- Uh, Stilinski?"

"Yup, that's me!" He hands the paper to Stiles, who signs it with a flourish and doesn't even try to hide his excited grin.

He helps the delivery man bring in all the boxes (there are a shit ton; Stiles is not built for this), then thanks him profusely and says goodbye. He shuts the front door, then turns around to look at everything. He realizes he doesn't even know where to start.

"Shit."

He eyes the thick shipping tape on the nearest box and then inspects his nails. They're stubby and bitten down. He doubts they could cut butter. He bounds upstairs, grabs a knife out of a drawer in the kitchen, then hops back downstairs, taking extra care not to trip, considering that he's holding a sharp object. Stiles likes his intestines inside his body, thank you very much.

He rips into the tape on a box with the knife, then opens the flaps and looks inside. Clothing racks. Those stay out here. The next box holds shelves to assemble. Those will go into the back room.

He finds himself settling into a rhythm. Rip the tape, open the box, look inside. Store or back room? Right, back room. Rip the tape, open the box, look inside. Store or back room? That'll stay in the store.

Once he's sorted through all the boxes, he grabs one with shelves in it and drags it across the floor to the door of the storage room. He opens it, shuffles backwards awkwardly with a firm grip on the box, then turns around once he's inside only to see another man holding a package of cat collars and raising a thick dark eyebrow at him.

Stiles stares openly. "What the hell?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are HUGELY appreciated, so thanks a bunch, guys!
> 
> If you see any spelling errors or anything, let me know. I'm usually pretty good at spelling but my computer has autocorrect, so God knows what little things it's "fixed" that I didn't notice.
> 
> Also, I'm not a great writer, but this plot was just stuck in my head and I couldn't not write it, you know?

"Dude, you can't be in here," Stiles snaps with furrowed eyebrows. "How did you get in here? Did you break in?" The other man's eyes narrow.

"I used my door. This room belongs to me, too," he says. Stiles squints at him.

"What the hell are you talking about? Never mind-- can you please just get out?"

"Excuse me?" Those eyebrows raise in an affronted way. Stiles can't believe he has the gall to look indignant.

"I asked you to leave!" Stiles says, voice raised.

"This. Is. My. Room. Too," the man repeats. He gestures at the boxes around the room on the concrete floor, filled with various pet paraphernalia. Stiles looks around at them, at the shelves filled with more, and then back at Captain Eyebrows.

"Consider me officially confused."

The man sighs and rolls his eyes, putting the cat collars (which Stiles now notices have little bells and bows on them) back on the shelf. "Didn't Sheila go over this with you? I'm assuming it  _was_ Sheila you talked to. Sheila O'Donohue?"

He is right. Sheila is Stiles's realtor, the one who is renting the store to him. He eyes the stranger. "How do you know her?

"Because she's the realtor for the building," he huffs impatiently.

"That still doesn't explain what you're doing in here!" 

The other man pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply. When he makes eye contact again, Stiles almost flinches at the pure irritation in the hazel eyes.

"I own this room, too," he says with the air of talking to someone who is both slow and doesn't speak English. Stiles can't help but feel annoyed. "Why do you think it's so big? It's shared between the two stores."

Stiles gapes at him.

"Are you fucking serious? I  _knew_ there had to be a catch somewhere," he moans.

"Did she really not tell you?"

"No, she didn't!" Stiles yelps. "Why do you think I thought you broke in?"

The other man just shrugs. "I thought you were just high-strung or something. Possibly stupid."

"…Thanks."

"Well, now that you're up to speed, I guess we should lay a few ground rules," Eyebrows says. He makes a sweeping gesture at the side of the room with boxes. "This side is mine. And this side," he says with a wave in the other direction, "is yours. The last people took their shelves with them, so you'll have to buy some of your own."

"Yeah, I've got some," Stiles mumbles. "Wait, what happened to the last people?"

"They moved. I think the wife got pregnant and they decided owning a store was too stressful."

"Huh," he considers this. "Were you guys friends?"

The other man's forehead puckers slightly. "No. But they were good neighbors. They were quiet, rarely used this room, and when they did, they kept it clean." His pointed tone of voice is not lost on Stiles, who smirks.

"Right. Got it. So, uh, ground rules?"

"Yes. Keep your side orderly. Don't touch my inventory. Try to be qui--"

"What's your name?" Stiles cocks his head. The other man's seemingly permanent frown deepens.

"Derek Hale. As I was saying,--"

"So what do you sell in your store?" Stiles continues, enjoying himself a little too much. "Pet supplies, I'm assuming. Do you sell live animals?"

"No," Derek grumbles. "Are you going to let me finish or not?"

"Oh, right, I'm sorry!" the younger man says innocently, waving a hand for him to continue. Derek glares.

"As I was  _saying_ , try to be quiet. I don't want you to disturb my customers." Derek picks the collars back up. "And least of all, don't disturb me. Got it?" His eyes flash and he points at Stiles's chest threateningly, collars jingling merrily.

"Look, dude, I get what you're trying to do. But it's kinda hard to feel threatened by you when you're holding a bunch of little purple cat collars with bells on them," Stiles says with slightly raised eyebrows. Derek purses his lips and stalks out of the room, through a door on the far wall that Stiles hadn't noticed, leading presumably to the other shop.

Now alone, he chuckles slightly and shakes his head. He has a few choice words for his realtor.

 

**********

 

Three hours later, Stiles is still in the storage room, but now sweaty and disheveled and cursing Ikea.

"Fucking DIY freaks," he mutters. "Who the hell wrote these bullshit instructions?" He glares at the offending piece of paper, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth between the picture on the pamphlet and his attempt at a shelf. The shelf looks like it got dropped off a tall building. He growls in frustration and chucks the instructions away from him. They flutter lamely to the floor three feet away. He decides to flutter lamely to the floor himself and lies down on the cold gray stone, covering his eyes with one hand and groaning.

Thirty seconds later, he becomes suddenly aware of a person standing right next to him. He jerks up into a sitting position to find none other than his lovely new neighbor staring down at him. They look at each other awkwardly for about ten seconds until Derek says, "What are you doing down there?"

"It's a new meditation I'm trying. It's called Giving Up On Life," Stiles retorts, rubbing his eyes tiredly and propping his chin glumly on his bent knee.

Derek seems to be at a loss for words. He looks a few feet away from the man on the floor and sees the bastardized shelf. He strides over to it and surveys it with a snort.

"What were you even trying to do?" he laughs, and it feels weird to see a smile on this stranger's face. Stiles thinks he should do it more often. It takes years off his face.

"I'm building a shelf," he mutters.

"Are you sure?"

"Shaddap," Stiles grumbles. He gets to his feet with a weary sigh and checks the time on his phone. It's already past 9, which, as far as he is concerned, is as good a time as any to go to bed.

"It's been fun, but I think I'm gonna turn in for the night," he says with a clap to Derek's shoulder. "It was nice to meet you."

"Likewise," the man returns in a tone of voice that gives Stiles reason to believe that he doesn't mean it.

Stiles walks out of the back room and into his shop, which has the lights off. He curses several times as he stumbles over boxes in the dark until he finally reaches the blessed front door. Then he remembers that the stairs up to his apartment are on the opposite side of the room, about five feet away from the door he came out of. He sighs. Curses again.

Once he's finally upstairs, he slumps into the kitchen. He's a bit peckish, but too tired to make anything, so he pulls a block of cheddar out of the fridge and takes a bite from it. It'll do.

Five minutes later, his teeth are nice and brushed, he's in his pajamas, and he is ready to sleep. He grabs his new copy of _Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children,_ hoping to make a dent in it, but falls asleep within ten minutes with the book resting lightly on his face.e

 

**********

 

He wakes up feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Well, no, actually, he feels like shit, but it's nothing coffee and Adderall won't fix. He downs a cup, taking his meds with it, and wolfs down a bowl of Cheerios in record time. It's still early, but he wants to get to work on those shelves again so he can get it over with.

He takes another mug down with him, sipping it periodically as he descends the spiral staircase and opens the door into the shop. He steps nimbly (at least, as nimbly as he ever could) around the boxes littering the floor until he gets to the storage room, hoping he'd run into Derek as little as possible. Guy was rough around the edges.

When he walks in, he stops dead in his tracks, coffee lifted halfway to his mouth. There are seven perfectly assembled Ikea shelves lining the wall on his side of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looove feedback, so please feel free to let me know what you think I did well or what you think I fucked up.

Stiles walks to the shelves and inspects them, knocking on the wood a few times to test their sturdiness. They seem to be pretty much perfect (at least, as perfect as Ikea shelves can get) and he sips his coffee with a small smile.

He busies himself for the next few hours setting up the store itself, putting a couple of the new shelves in, putting clothing racks against the wall, and even managing to get the heavy counter towards the back of the room, where customers will pay. He finds the box with his cash register and heaves the contraption onto said counter, collapsing onto the floor after and vowing to start working out soon.

Soon enough, all the boxes on the floor are empty. He dances around the shop, kicking the boxes around and humming a little victory song.

"I'm do-one, I'm do-one," he sings, hip-checking a shelf (which hurts a lot more than he thought it would). He twirls around and sees Derek standing in the open doorway of the back room, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"Having fun?" he asks.

"So much fun," Stiles says. He refuses to feel embarrassed. "I finally set up all the furniture. Now all I have to wait for is the clothes to come in tomorrow."

Derek hums. "What are you going to call your store?"

Dammit. He knew he'd forgotten something.

"Um, I haven't really thought of one yet," he admits.

"Seriously?" Derek looks scandalized. "When were you planning on getting that little detail out of the way?"

"Don't judge me! I'll think of something."

"Well, what are you going to be selling?"

"Women's clothes and accessories," Stiles says proudly. "I've always appreciated fashion, you know?"

Derek looks him up and down, eyes pausing on Stiles's band T-shirt.

"I can tell," he says sarcastically.

"Hey, don't you go dissing Franz Ferdinand!" Stiles scolds, a finger pointing at Derek, who raises his arms in a  _don't taze me, bro!_ manner.

"I'm not. It's just… band T-shirts? We're in 2014 suburban Massachusetts, not 90s Seattle."

"Well, I'll have you know that band shirts are  _always_ in style," the younger man says with his pert nose turned up in the air.

"Whatever you say." Derek starts back into the storeroom, but Stiles grabs his shoulder. Derek turns slightly to look Stiles in the face, looking between the hand on his shoulder and the face of the person it's attached to with a mildly threatening look.

"I'm taking my hand off," Stiles says, raising it into the air defensively. "I just wanted to thank you for building those shelves. I was having a lot of trouble with them, so I really appreciate it."

"What can I say? I can't stand incompetence," Derek says, and with that he strides away, shutting the door behind him. Stiles gapes after him.

"Learn how to accept thanks," he mutters. "Dick."

 

**********

 

Stiles doesn't see Derek for three whole days (much to his own relief), and by that time, he's gotten his clothing shipments, taken inventory, put most of the stock out in the store, put the rest in the back room, repurposed a closet as a fitting room, and even come up with a store name.

"How's this sound?" Stiles says excitedly to Scott, cradling his cell phone between his ear and shoulder and holding his hands up in front of him grandly, as if picturing his storefront. " _Alpha._ "

There's a short pause. "Alpha what?" Scott asks.

"No, just Alpha."

"…Why?"

"Because it's cool," Stiles huffs. "You know, like femme fatale-ish."

"I guess so…"

"Oh, shut up," he sighs impatiently. "I like it. That's what matters, right?"

He bids Scott goodbye, setting his phone on his kitchen table. He goes downstairs to the storeroom and grabs a bucket of paint he bought at Home Depot yesterday. He suddenly realizes that he has no way to get up high enough to paint it on the front of his store, so he looks around the room wildly. He spies a stepladder over on Derek's side of the room, folded up against the wall. However, he distinctly remembers Derek telling him not to touch his stuff, so he sighs and goes over to the door to the pet supplies store. He steels himself, and knocks on the door.

It swings open a moment later, revealing Derek's broad form.

"Hi," Stiles greets good-naturedly, swallowing awkwardly when the other man doesn't respond. "I was wondering if I could borrow your stepladder? I need it to paint the name of the store," he lifts the paint pail, "so… that would be… helpful."

Hale looks a little conflicted for a second, but it clears quickly and he nods his assent.

"I should go with you," he says. "So you don't maim yourself."

Stiles's mouth drops open. "I resent that! I'm not as 'incompetent' as you apparently think," he spits. Unfortunately, his words' meaning is rendered laughable when he turns around and promptly loses his balance, falling to the floor.

"Sure you're not."

 

"So, what name did you decide on?" Derek asks, holding the ladder steady while Stiles totters up the rungs.

"Alpha," he replies, focusing on balancing the paint can on the top step of the ladder. "What do you think?"

"It's kind of nice," the other man says. "Short and sweet."

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you, O Man of Few Words?" Stiles snorts, starting the outline of the A, big and bold.

"This may surprise you, but I am usually more subdued. For some reason, you're easy to talk to."

"I'm flattered," Stiles half-jokes. "Or, maybe not, since most of your words to me are insults."

"None are uncalled for," Derek says gruffly. Stiles may or may not purposefully flick black paint toward him.

"Sorry," he lies. "This stuff is so much runnier than I thought it would be."

"I'm sure," the other man growls, wiping spots of paint off his face. Stiles lets out a light laugh, outlining the other letters meticulously. He chatters idly to Derek about superheroes and TV shows he watches while he fills them all in. Once he finishes, he lowers the paint can to his companion and hops off the short ladder.

"What do you think?" he asks, brushing off his hands and then folding his arms across his chest.

"It's… impressive," Derek admits reluctantly. "It looks like you used a stencil."

"I told you I had an eye for design," Stiles says cheekily, plucking the can out of the other's grasp and heading back inside.

 

**********

 

Two days later, it's Alpha's opening day. Stiles has a banner outside with GRAND OPENING: 25% OFF! emblazoned on it in red. He bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet, flitting around the store, straightening the mannequins' outfits and refolding shirts for the millionth time.

He had seen Derek just a bit earlier unpacking a shipment of dog food.

"Big day!" Stiles had practically squealed. "Wish me luck!"

"You'll need it," was the grunted reply. Stiles had just stuck his tongue out and refused to let his excited mood be dampened.

Now, it's thirty seconds to 9 AM. He looks at his watch intensely, and the second the minute hand ticks to 12, he sprints to the front door and flips the CLOSED sign to OPEN.

He returns to his register and sits down with his hands twisting in his lap.

"Now, we wait," he says quietly.

 

The day goes by rapidly and Stiles barely has time to breathe, which is just how he likes it. He chats with at least two hundred different customers over the span of eight hours, and when the clock says 5, he flips his sign to CLOSED with a weary smile.

 

**********

 

Over the next month, he develops a strange friendship with the grumpy man he shares his storage room with. It mostly consists of Stiles making jokes at Derek's expense and Derek subsequently glaring, but he knows he doesn't mean it. Plus he now knows that his neighbor is a total softie when it comes to animals. He has gone into the pet store to find the man playing with customers' pets three times now, two dogs and one cat, and the look of pure glee in his eyes while interacting them was pretty much adorable. Stiles can't even bring himself to tease him for it because he himself is almost like that with animals. And Derek looks so much younger and carefree with them. Stiles tells him multiple times that it's a good look on him, but the other man just rolls his eyes and tells him to get back to his store.

Which Stiles is doing right now. When he gets back into Alpha, he sees a cute girl in there.

"Oh, hi! How are you?" he says. "Sorry, I was just in the back room. Can I help you with anything?"

"Oh, no thanks. I'm just browsing," she says with a shy smile.

"Alright, let me know if you want to try something on."

While she walks slowly around the store, fingers running lightly over different dresses and tops, Stiles studies her. She's honestly really hot. Creamy skin, curly black hair, light brown eyes… 

"--is so cute!" A voice interrupts his daydreaming.

"Sorry, what?" he asks.

"This dress is so cute," she repeats, holding up a little blue number.

"Yeah, we just got those in last week. I like them too," he says, walking over to her. "Do you want to try it on?"

"Yeah, definitely." She rifles through the rack, looking crestfallen when she's seen all of them. "There aren't any in my size."

"Never fear!" Stiles says, holding up a finger. He runs to the back of the room, vaulting over the counter (and falling. The girl snorts when she laughs, which is dorky and obviously totally endearing to Stiles) and going into the back room. He looks through his shelves to find the box the dresses came in, and picks out a few in bigger sizes than those out in the store. He returns to her with an armful of dresses, and bows gallantly, holding them out to her.

"Thank you," she giggles.

"I have bigger sizes of all the dresses in the back room," he explains. "There's just only so much merchandise I can fit in this space."

"Yeah, that's true," she says, glancing at the tags of the dresses for sizes. "At least you _have_ plus-sized clothes. It's so hard to find stuff that fits sometimes, y'know?" She blushes after she says this, as if hoping she didn't say too much.

"Oh, I totally get you," he says, leading her to the fitting room. "Let me know if it doesn't fit."

She disappears behind the curtain of the room and emerges a minute later with the dress on, and she looks stunning.

"Wow," Stiles whistles. "You look great."

"Oh, you have to say that," she murmurs, looking at herself in the mirror on the wall.

"No, I mean it," he says softly, making eye contact with her in the mirror. "You look beautiful." A crooked grin slowly splits her face, and she turns around.

"I'll get it," she says, going back into the fitting room.

"Excellent," Stiles says. "Good choice."

When she pays for it a minute later, back in her normal clothes, she exchanges a small smile with him and turns away. She walks to the door, and Stiles knows this is probably his last chance. "Wait!"

She turns and meets his flustered gaze. "Yeah?"

"Uh, look. I'm not really good at this kind of thing, but I-- um, would you like to, uh, maybe--"

"Do you want to go out with me sometime?" she interrupts. Stiles gapes.

"Uh, yeah! That's be totally-- I mean, that'd be totally awesome!" She smiles kind of goofily.

"Alright. I'll call you," she says. "Can I see your phone for a sec?"

He wrangles it out of his pocket with difficulty (stupid skinny jeans) and hands it to her. She types something in, gives it back to him, and clasps her hands behind herself, rocking back and forth on her heels a little bit.

"I'll see you later," she smiles. Stiles looks down at his phone and sees the contact she added.

"Definitely. Bye, Alex," he says. 

She starts leaving. He calls after her, "I'm Stiles, by the way!"

"I know," is her reply. Stiles stares at the closed door dumbfoundedly for a good twenty seconds after she leaves, feeling immensely stupid when he remembers he wears a name tag.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even really a writer by trade; it's kind of an idle hobby that I'm not that good at. So I love feedback because God knows I need it.
> 
> Also, I'll let you know now that the Sterek won't come in for a little while, so don't hold your breath.

Stiles sprints into the back room and bursts into Derek's shop.

"You'll never guess what just happened!" he yells, stopping abruptly at Derek's glare. He's with a customer and has a snake currently wrapped around his neck.

"I'll come back later," Stiles stage-whispers, before slowly backing up and swinging the door shut. He bounces around the storage room on the balls of his feet, needlessly arranging and rearranging his shelves over and over again. After what feels like an hour, Derek comes in.

"What's your big news?"

" _I got a girl's number!_ " Stiles crows, almost before Derek finishes talking. The other man's face is unreadable.

"Congratulations," he says simply, after a long pause. "I have to get back to work." He turns on his heel and heads back into his pet store, shutting the door forcefully behind himself.

"Someone's grumpy," Stiles mutters. Not that it matters. Because Stiles  _totally_ just got a girl's number.

 

**********

 

After closing, Stiles goes back up to his bedroom and wrestles his phone out of his pocket again. He opens his contacts and flips to the newest addition, "Alex Thurston" glowing at him in black letters on a white background.

Is it too soon to call her? Stiles doesn't know. It's not exactly like he has leagues of experience in this area. He could ask Derek, though he seems like he's in a bad mood and also doesn't seem to be the dating type. The whole serial killer vibe he has going on probably scares off all females within a fifty-mile radius. Or all males. Stiles doesn't judge. Though the thought of Derek being into men evokes a strange feeling that Stiles doesn't even begin to want to understand.

He gathers all his courage and taps the "call" icon, then holds it up to his ear. It rings once before he frantically hangs up and throws his phone onto the bed, putting a pillow on top of it for good measure.

"What am I doing?" he asks himself. "I don't know what I'm doing! _I don't know what I'm--_ "

The phone rings shrilly, interrupting his minor freak-out. He stares warily at the pillow on top of it before slowly making his way to the bed, sliding his hand under said pillow, and extracting his phone. Alex is calling. He takes a deep breath and taps "answer."

"Hello?" It comes out like a croak, so he clears his throat. "Hello?" he tries again.

"Hey, Stiles. It's Alex, the girl from earlier?" She sounds unsure.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. Obviously."

"Oh, uh, well, did you just call me?"

Stiles racks his brain for a moment, trying to think of a plausible excuse. "Oh, I must've butt-dialed you. Happens all the time. The buttons get pressed every time I so much as lean on something," he chuckles, trying to sound casual. There's a short pause on the other end of the line.

"Don't you have a touch screen?" Alex asks, and damn. He does. She had his phone earlier. How could he have forgotten that?

"Um, yeah," Stiles admits. "That was a little bit of a lie. I did call you, but I, like, lost my nerve, you know? I'm kinda new to the whole… dating thing." He punctuates this statement with some vague hand-waving, forgetting that she can't see him.

"Oh, that's totally okay," she tells him. "Stiles, don't feel like you should be embarrassed by that with me. I'm chill."

The last word sounds so strange coming out of her mouth, he can't help but laugh.

"What?" she protests. "Why are you laughing at me? I'm not  _that_ funny."

"It's just… The word 'chill' sounds so weird when you say it."

"Yeah… It's not really a part of my vernacular," she admits. "My friend told me I'm not 'hip' enough, so I'm trying to appease her. I guess it's not really working." Stiles can hear the wry smile in her voice.

"You're not hip enough? What, are you a Pilgrim or something?" he teases, enjoying the small laugh it elicits from her.

"Oh, shut up. I guess I'm not really in touch with current media, or something," she says, and Stiles grows curious.

"What do you mean?"

She sighs, not sadly, but like she's trying to think. "I don't really go online that much or watch a lot of TV, so…"

"What do you do with your life?" he asks incredulously. Stiles lives for his TV shows.

"I read!" she exclaims, and, okay, Stiles can understand that. He's always liked reading.

"What do you read?" he asks, settling onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Um… World War II memoirs, mostly."

"Oh!" he says, slightly surprised. He'd pegged her as a sci-fi fan. 

"I love wars. Especially World War II. I love learning about the weaponry and the military strategies, and just all of it. Most people think it's weird and morbid," she says, her voice suddenly slightly timid.

"No, I think it's fascinating," Stiles assures her. And, in a moment of daring, he asks, "Do you want to hang out on Friday?"

"Um, next Friday?"

"No, this Friday."

"… So, today?"

"What? No. Today's Tuesday."

"Today's Friday, Stiles."

Whoops.

"I totally knew that," he says breezily. "Not Friday, then. How does Sunday sound? I take Sunday off."

"Yeah, Sunday's wide open for me. What do you want to do?" Alex asks, sounding excited.

"Maybe Walden Pond? I've lived here in Concord for a little while now and still haven't gone, which I've been informed is a travesty."

They talk for a whole hour after that, until Alex says she needs to go. In that span, Stiles learns that she's lived in Concord her whole life, has two sisters, owns an ancient cat named Stacy, has a best friend who is coincidentally also named Stacy, loves chocolate, and majored in military history (no surprise there).

He hangs up with a smile on his face.

 

**********

 

Saturday drags on slowly. Stiles is ready to maim and kill someone with his bare hands, but decides not to because it's super messy. One of his regulars, a teenage girl named Frankie shows up and chats with him for about five minutes about The Walking Dead, which is pretty much the highlight of his day.

On his lunch break, he tapes up a sign saying "Back in 30 minutes" on the front door, then meanders down the street looking for a café or something. If he eats one more dry turkey and cheese sandwich from his own kitchen, he'll scream.

He finds a gelato place that just opened, and goes inside. It's a little chilly for gelato, but whatever. Stiles is a trooper.

It's especially worth it when he tastes the hazelnut flavor. He strolls back to his shop, excitedly spooning it into his mouth every few seconds. He's super excited about this gelato.  
  
When he gets back to Alpha, he skips to the back room. Derek unsurprisingly isn't there, so he bursts into the other man's shop.

"You gotta try this gelato, man!" he practically yells. Only the big blue eyes that are currently looking at him like he's crazy aren't Derek's.

"Who are you?" Stiles asks suspiciously.

"Who are  _you?_ " the boy behind the register asks, raising his eyebrows in an eerily similar way to Derek.

"I asked you first."

"This isn't your shop."

Stiles narrows his eyes. "It's not yours, either." The boy smirks.

"You're not entirely wrong there," he says. "I'm Isaac."

"Stiles." Isaac's eyebrows go back up.

"Oh, so  _you're_ Stiles!"

"Um," he says stiffly. "Yes."

"I've heard a lot about you," the boy says with an easy smile.

"Can't say the same," Stiles says.

"I live with Derek." At Stiles's shocked face, Isaac laughs. "Not like that. He basically adopted me. I work here only part time because I'm in high school, which is probably why we've never met."

"Huh," the other man huffs. "He never told me that."

Isaac shrugs. "He's not really personable, you know?"

Stiles laughs at that. "Oh, believe me, I know. Do you know where Derek is, by any chance?"

"He's at home. He's been sulking about something. He mopes a lot though, so he'll get over whatever it is."

"Oh, alright." Stiles starts slinking back to the door. "Thanks anyway, man." Isaac waves lazily.

Back in his shop, he takes the sign off the door and settles back into his chair at the counter.

"More gelato for me," he mumbles, shoving a spoonful into his mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so short. I'm sorry. I write short chapters anyway which sucks and I'm wicked tired so this is gonna be tiny. I just haven't updated in a little while, so I felt guilty.
> 
> Like, it's embarrassing how short this is. But I'll have another (longer) chapter up tomorrow, because I'm not busy at all (besides school) and shouldn't be too tired.

Derek continues to elude Stiles the next day. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't seem to catch him. Derek's like a fucking butterfly.

At closing time, he bids his last customer goodbye and then shuts and locks the door behind her, flipping the sign to "closed." He pokes his head into the storage room with only a sliver of hope that he would see Derek, but  _nada._ He flips the store lights off and trudges wearily upstairs, rubbing his hands over his tired face.

He has Cheerios for dinner and watches  _Pushing Daisies_ on his laptop, musing about how cute Ned and Chuck are together but how sad it is that they can't touch due to Ned's power. He decides that supernatural forces just complicate things and he's pretty content in his quiet, non-magical world, though it could be mundane at times.

He logs on to Facebook, smiling at pictures of Lydia's and Jackson's baby, Julia. And so what if he also feels a slight pang of sadness upon seeing them? Yes, most of his friends are married. But it's okay! He's got a bitchin' store that he operates all by himself, and besides, he's got a date tomorrow. Who knows where that could lead?

Although, Stiles chides himself, it's  _waaaaay_ too early to be thinking like that. He barely knows the girl.

And if Stiles goes to bed thinking of this with a smile on his face, well, who's to judge him?


End file.
